Leslie Takes a Holiday
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Part 1 of 2. Leslie, diagnosed with exhaustion, embarks on a long vacation to see old friends. Follows 'He is Woman, Hear Him Cry'.
1. Chapter 1

§ § § -- September 18, 1993

Leslie awoke one Saturday morning in mid-September with a low fever; her head felt achy, but she didn't think it was enough to keep her from doing the job she loved so much. So she said nothing to Roarke when she came out to join him on the veranda after ringing the bell, and through the introduction of the weekend's guests, she actually managed to keep her father from deducing that there was something wrong. _Anyway,_ she thought, _it's not that big a deal. When I get home and we're waiting for the first guest to come in so we can get her started on her fantasy, I'll just pop upstairs and take some medicine._

Roarke, however, expressed surprise when she started for the steps. "Leslie, where are you going?" he asked.

"Just upstairs for a second," she said. "I…forgot something earlier." She rushed up before he could question her further, and found herself watching her reflection in the bath-room mirror while she was pouring out the liquid medication into a small cup. _Watch out, Leslie Susan,_ she warned herself. _If Father finds out—well, at least before the weekend's over anyway—that's it for you, and he'll bring Julie in. I haven't missed a day since I took on this job, and I'm not going to if I can help it. If I just medicate this thing and don't push myself too much, I should be okay._ She stuck out her tongue at her disapproving reflection in the mirror, then tipped back the cup and drained its contents.

She rinsed out the little cup, dried it and returned the bottle to the medicine cabinet, then ducked into her room and put on the rainbow-gem bracelet that had been a gift from Prince Errico two years before so that she could defray Roarke's questions. Making her way back downstairs, she found herself barely ahead of the arrival of their first guest, just long enough for Roarke to ask curiously, "What was it you forgot?"

"This," she said, displaying the bracelet at him. He gave her a look askance but let the matter drop when their guest stepped from the foyer into the study.

The medication did have enough effect for awhile that Leslie forgot about the fever, and most of the rest of the day went normally enough. But in the early evening, just after Roarke had slipped into the time-travel room to make a routine check on a guest, she was abruptly reminded of it when she arose to file away some financial statements and saw the room begin to spin, ever so slowly. She stopped in the middle of the floor and closed her eyes, waiting it out for a long, uneasy moment. _Drat it,_ she thought. _I wonder if Father'll say anything if I tell him I'm going to bed early tonight?_

Leslie cautiously opened her eyes, noted that the room had stabilized, and traversed the remaining distance to the credenza with some care. But by now she knew there was something not quite right; Roarke had asked about her lack of appetite at supper. _I can't fool him much longer. Father can sense anything and everything, and sooner or later he'll know something's off kilter. But I don't want to be relegated to a sickroom before the weekend's over…_

By the time Roarke returned, she was in the far corner of the room between the back of the wall abutting the stairs and the French shutter doors, where early that year they had set up a computer that they used almost exclusively as a word processor. "Leslie, I thought you had done that earlier in the day," Roarke said in surprise, noting that she was preparing a batch of response letters to would-be fantasizers. This was one of her routine tasks that had to be done every day because of the sheer volumes of mail they got.

"I fell a little behind," Leslie said without turning to look at him. "But if it makes you feel any better, I'll finish this up and then get to bed early so I can get up early enough to get a head start on tomorrow."

Roarke didn't respond, and she relaxed slightly, figuring he had accepted this. But then she felt his hand on her shoulder, and she stopped typing when he said softly but sternly, "Leslie, look at me."

_Well, the fix is in,_ she thought resignedly. _So much for the rest of my weekend._ She revolved in her chair and looked up at her father with the most innocent expression she could conjure up, doubting even as she did that he'd buy it. And he didn't. "Has something gone wrong today? You've been acting slightly oddly ever since this morning, and you've barely eaten a thing today."

"I had a big lunch," Leslie said, trying to think fast.

Roarke's dark eyes narrowed in confusion. "No, you didn't," he said.

_Oh blast…he's right. I wasn't hungry then either._ "Well…I just…" She floundered, but they both knew she had run out of excuses.

"Stand up," Roarke requested, and she did—at which point the room began to rotate lazily on some invisible axis. Instinctively she clutched the chair and Roarke's arm to keep from losing her balance, and his eyes widened with alarm. "Leslie, are you feeling all right? And don't prevaricate in the attempt to reassure me," he added, apparently anticipating her even before she consciously realized she was going to try to head him off with some weak dismissal. "You don't look well. Now tell me what's wrong."

With a great sigh of resignation, she capitulated and told him what she'd been feeling all day. "I was okay for most of the day, actually," she insisted when she saw him frown in concern. "After I took the medicine, I felt fine."

"But you still merely picked at your lunch," Roarke pointed out, "and you ate even less at dinner. I watched you at both meals. Perhaps it's time for me to call in a doctor. It's plain that you're not feeling well, and I don't want you to exacerbate the problem or hurt yourself in trying to pretend it doesn't exist. I want you to stop what you're doing and go up and get some sleep, right now."

Leslie smiled reluctantly. "I was planning to go to bed early tonight anyway," she admitted. "But please, don't call the doctor. It might be just a passing thing, and I'll be back to normal tomorrow as long as I get a good night's sleep."

Roarke eyed her dubiously, clearly thinking this over. After a moment he sighed and shook his head. "I suppose you could be right," he said, his tone stating that he didn't believe this for a moment, "but I want you to know that this is very much against my better judgment. You've been sick only once since the very first day you set foot on Fantasy Island, and to see you unwell raises quite an alarm since it's such a rarity for you."

Leslie shrugged. "It's not as if I'm fainting at your feet with the Black Plague," she kidded lightly, grinning.

Roarke rolled his eyes, and she giggled. "Really, Leslie Susan, you do try my patience at the most inappropriate moments," he complained. But she could see the smile playing about his lips, and smirked unrepentantly. "Very well. Get a good night's rest, and in the morning we'll reassess your condition."

"Don't you dare call Julie," Leslie warned him, suddenly serious. "Say what you will, but I refuse to miss out on the resolution of the fantasies. After we see the guests off on Monday morning, you can lock me in my room if you think you have to. But I'm not going to be left out. And besides, you need me. If I fall sick now, what're you going to do when you need to be in two places at once and can't send me in to be a reasonable facsimile for the less urgent problem?"

"What makes you think I couldn't be in two places at once?" Roarke retorted, pulling her up short and causing her mouth to drop open. He grinned at her. "Get upstairs, young lady, this moment. If you dare entertain any hope of seeing the weekend through to its conclusion, that is your only alternative. Go."

She blinked at him and gave him a tiny, meek smile. "Yes, Daddy," she lisped, and left behind a laughing Roarke as she climbed the stairs.

§ § § -- September 19, 1993

Leslie was quite startled to be awakened by Roarke when he paused in the doorway and called her name. "Father—?"

"You were so determined to see the weekend through," he said mock-severely, "and here you've overslept. That in itself is a sign that something is wrong—but if you truly feel up to the day's tasks, then you had better get up."

"Great," moaned Leslie, annoyed with herself. "I even set my alarm—why didn't it go off? Maybe the stupid thing's broken." She sat up and swung her feet out of bed, picking up the alarm clock that sat on her bedside table and examining it.

Roarke watched her, a slight frown on his features. "Leslie," he said, now serious, "I am not at all convinced that it's wise for you to persist…"

"Father, I can be as stubborn as anyone," she warned him with a faint smile, "and you should know we New Englanders are famous for it. I hope you didn't call Julie."

"No, I refrained," Roarke said with light sarcasm, and her smile grew into a grin. "But if you aren't downstairs within ten minutes, I will do precisely that. Ill-advised though I am convinced this is, I can see that nothing I can say will stop you. But I'll be watching you; so if I think it warranted, I will lay down the law: and then, nothing _you_ can say will stop _me_. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly," she replied and saluted him teasingly.

"Such insolence," he murmured, but chuckled and left her so she could get dressed.

Through the day, Roarke deliberately kept most of Leslie's tasks light, in the hope that she could have her way and he his at the same time. But in the afternoon, on her way back to the main house in one of the station wagons, Leslie was waylaid by a guest named Arlene Simansky, who leaped out into the middle of the Ring Road and frantically waved her arms at Leslie. "Leslie, I need help!" she cried when Leslie, having slammed on the brakes, had managed to stop the car. "Casey refuses to leave the unicorns. She says she wants to stay here with them for the rest of her life! How can I possibly convince her to come back, especially after I've told her all her life that unicorns don't really exist and now she's seen them, in the flesh, on this island?"

"Wow," said Leslie, astonished, forgetting entirely the errand she had been running for Roarke. "Come on, get in and we'll find her. This actually happened once before. Maybe the same logic will work on Casey." Arlene Simansky threw herself into the front seat beside Leslie, and they headed at a fair clip along the Ring Road to the clearing Leslie remembered Roarke having taken her to, along with Tattoo, the day she'd turned sixteen.

Sure enough, at the clearing there was the swirling mist that seemed made of liquid mother-of-pearl, which Leslie remembered from her trip there with Roarke and Tattoo; the clearing exhibited this characteristic only when the unicorns were in evidence, as they clearly were now. Leslie stopped the car and she and Arlene Simansky got out; the worried mother hovered close behind Leslie, who pushed slowly forward through the mist and emerged into a dreamlike scene. The colors all seemed like those in a painting; the grass was brightly green, the sky deeply blue, the clouds pure, pristine white. Half a dozen unicorns, their immaculate coats the color of the protective mist, stood in a circle around an entranced girl of eleven or twelve years, whose long glossy-brown hair had been caught back in a ponytail and who wore a long ivory-colored gown. She approached each unicorn almost stealthily on bare feet, reaching up and touching them one by one on the nose, her face aglow with delight.

"Casey!" Mrs. Simansky called out, startling Leslie. The unicorns shied, some reared, and all of them galloped away to the farthest end of the clearing. Casey's face took on an exasperated expression.

"Oh, Mom," she groaned. "Why'd you have to go and do that?"

"Casey, you've got to give this up," her mother scolded. "You know we have to go home tomorrow, no matter what."

"But I told you, I want to stay here forever," Casey insisted. "I've always told you that unicorns really exist, and seeing them here just proves it." She turned to Leslie for support and appealed, "Isn't that true, Miss Leslie?"

"Oh, well, that all depends," Leslie said, shrugging. "You know, Casey, you aren't the first person who wanted to stay with the unicorns."

Casey tilted her head aslant, amazed. "Really? Then how come she's not here too?"

Leslie cleared her throat, working out the best way to say what she needed to say. "We have a rule here, Casey. For years, before I came here, my father and his former assistant, Tattoo, had a lot of guests who wanted to stay and live here even after their fantasies had been granted. Needless to say, that created some problems. Eventually there were too many people here, and there just wasn't room for all of them. Now I admit, some of them missed their homes, and moved back off-island again…but most just stayed on, soaking up the sun on the beaches all the time, taking up all the bungalows and the hotel rooms. More than a few ran out of money and Father and Tattoo had to send them home again by force. The whole thing got a little chaotic, so they set up a rule that said if you wanted to live on the island, you had to go to work. No lying around like you were on vacation for the rest of your life." She grinned.

By now Casey wore a faint scowl. "So what?"

"Well, obviously that rule could go only so far, because there were only so many jobs to go around. And naturally, they got filled up in no time flat. When that happened, Father set up an unbreachable rule that everybody has to live by, no matter who they are. Once your fantasy's been fulfilled, that's it: you have to leave the island."

Casey stared at her, horrified. "You mean…I can't live with the unicorns?"

Leslie shook her head sympathetically. "No, sorry. I hate to sound callous, Casey, but think about it a different way. How are you going to survive alone?"

"The unicorns'd take care of me," Casey said stubbornly. Leslie immediately realized she was in for a long siege. "They like me, I know they'd do it."

"Unicorns aren't the most tolerant creatures in the world," Leslie said. "They're very picky, and not everyone gets the chance to see them. So right there, that makes you one of the lucky ones. I first saw them on my sixteenth birthday, and I knew I'd been privileged—and that was enough for me. It had to be. This is the first time I've seen them since then. Unicorns don't let outsiders into their world."

"Oh, they'd let me in," Casey said with assurance. "I understand unicorns. I've read everything in the world about them, everything I could find. I know all about them and what they like and don't like, and what you should and shouldn't do around them. I know more about unicorns than anyone else in the whole world. And I know they like me."

"They told you that?" Mrs. Simansky broke in, impatient and skeptical.

Casey rolled her eyes. "Oh, Mom," she snorted.

Leslie sighed softly. "It's not that simple, Casey," she said. "What's been written about unicorns has been recorded over centuries of finding out about them—their habits, their ways, their natures. I just told you that it's rare to see a unicorn. And not everyone who saw them gained their trust. For those who did, it took forever to do it—some grew old in the process, so that it took most of their lives to gain the knowledge they did. But no one ever learned everything there is to know about them."

"But…" Casey stared at her. "But I just know…" She turned and began to call out to the unicorns—but they had all disappeared. "Oh, no!"

"I'm sorry, Casey," Leslie said with genuine regret.

Casey squinted at Leslie, her expression suspicious. "I know Mr. Roarke isn't your real father, just your adopted one. I can tell 'cause you don't look like each other or talk the same or anything, and you haven't got his special powers, right?"

A little bewildered by the seeming _non sequitur_, Leslie nodded warily. "That's true, but why do you ask?"

"Well, where's your mom and dad?" Casey asked. "Did you have a fantasy to stay with the unicorns too, or what?"

"No," said Leslie, understanding then where Casey was going. "I was orphaned when I was a year or two older than you are now. And before you ask, it wasn't my fantasy to come live here: it was my mother's. She knew I'd have no one left in the world after they were gone, so she arranged for Mr. Roarke to raise me. So the rule didn't apply."

Casey's face fell. "Oh." She was a bright girl, Leslie could see that; it was plain that she fully understood the ramifications of this explanation. "So if it was _your_ fantasy to live here, then you'd have to live by Mr. Roarke's rule, and you'd have to leave…except that if he granted the fantasy, then he couldn't make you leave, and then he'd have to break his rule—because if he didn't break it, it meant he wasn't granting your fantasy. I wonder if that's ever happened?"

Leslie, who herself had mulled over this catch-22 problem on occasion, winced at hearing it posited aloud. "How about let's not go there, okay, Casey?" she suggested.

Casey peered up at her and grinned knowingly. "Bet you never thought of that."

Leslie stuck out her tongue at the girl in a playful gesture. "You lose, Casey Simansky, so let's drop this whole subject right here and now. You're making my head hurt." This was literally true, but not for the reason Leslie blithely put forth. "Come on, we really do have to go. Much as I hate to say it, your fantasy's over now."

Casey resisted, shooting one last hopeful look over her shoulder into the still-empty clearing, then hung her head. "I didn't even get to tell the unicorns goodbye."

"You can say it now," Leslie offered gently. "Just call it out to them. They'll hear you."

Casey eyed her dubiously, and Leslie nodded encouragement. Slowly the girl turned and lifted her face to the cobalt sky. "Bye, unicorns. Meeting you was the greatest thing that's ever happened to me in my whole life. Bye."

In the distance all three, hostess, mother and daughter, heard a chorus of faint whinnies, as if the departed unicorns had acknowledged the farewell. Leslie smiled and stepped back, allowing Mrs. Simansky to slip an arm around her daughter's shoulders and lead her out of the clearing. Leslie followed, unable to resist one final peek back into the clearing, even though the unicorns were long gone.

She dropped the Simanskys off at their bungalow and heaved a great sigh of relief, finally returning to the main house. Here, she was promptly accosted by a gaggle of native children from the fishing village, who all wanted to complain to her about a teacher in their school. It took her another ten minutes to persuade them that she had no power to do anything about the teacher and they were just going to have to bear with it, by which time Roarke had appeared on the veranda and was watching her with immense amusement.

"Have you been letting those children argue with you all this time?" he asked.

She blew out her breath. "No, it just seems that way," she said. "I ran into a little problem with the Simansky fantasy." She explained what had happened while they walked into the study, where Myeko Tokita stood looking very upset, holding her 16½-month-old son Alexander in her arms and just beginning to show with her second pregnancy. Leslie stopped short on one of the steps. "What's the matter?"

Before Roarke could say anything, Myeko announced, "I got here about twenty minutes ago. I've been trying to talk Mr. Roarke into letting me have a divorce from Toki."

"Wh…at?" Leslie croaked, staring at Roarke, flabbergasted.

"Yes, it's true," Roarke replied, sounding slightly weary, stepping around Leslie and going to his desk. "Why don't you explain it to Leslie," he suggested to Myeko.

"Toki refuses to look for a job here on the island so he can spend more time with me and Alexander," Myeko said, eyes blazing. "He claims the only lucrative jobs are in Hawaii, and do you realize what kind of commute that is? It's an 800-mile round trip on the charter plane every single day, five days a week! And they make him come in to work two Saturdays a month, too, so that's just more time he's away from us."

"And you want a divorce because Toki insists on commuting?" Leslie asked.

The phone rang, and Roarke made a gesture at the young women, indicating that they should continue their conversation, before picking it up. "Well, that's part of it, but it's not the only reason," Myeko said.

"Well then, what else?" Leslie prompted.

Roarke hung up then and gave his daughter an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Leslie, I must go and take care of something at the police station, and then I must terminate the other fantasy. You understand…"

"It's okay, Father, go ahead," said Leslie, who could have sworn she saw a relieved look flicker across Roarke's features for a fraction of a second before he nodded at Myeko and left the house at a brisk clip. No sooner had he gone than Myeko turned back to her.

"Oh, Leslie, it's awful. I'm five months pregnant, you know. I love Alexander and I'm gonna love the new kid too, but that's enough. Toki wants at least five kids, maybe more, since he's part of a big family. I want to stop after this one, whether we get a boy or a girl. And he won't listen to me. And then there's…" Once started, Myeko got going with aplomb, carrying on to Leslie about quite a few beefs she had with her husband that ran the gamut from petty to deadly serious. One of them concerned the fact that she wanted to start working for the newspaper as a gossip columnist, something that apparently met vociferous resistance from Toki and incited amused surprise in Leslie. Myeko was so worked up that she didn't notice her friend's struggle to hide her reaction.

"And most of all, he thinks it's better if he just stays the full week in Hawaii and comes home only on the weekends," Myeko concluded, her eyes finally welling with tears. "I say, if that's what he wants, he might as well just move there lock, stock and barrel!"

"Without you and Alexander?" Leslie asked.

"What, and leave Fantasy Island?" demanded Myeko, genuinely horrified. "I've lived here all my life—how could I live anywhere else? I don't think we can work this out, Leslie. Please, _please_ get Mr. Roarke to give me a divorce. It's not fair to me or Alexander that Toki won't make any effort."

"Have you talked to Toki about this?" Leslie asked. While she had never cared much for Toki, she didn't like the idea of seeing his and Myeko's marriage come to such an undignified end. Besides, Myeko tended toward an impulsive streak, and something told Leslie she was pursuing an impulse this time as well.

"Oh yes," Myeko assured her, nodding vigorously and beginning to pace the floor with a fretting Alexander in her arms. "Toki knows my feelings all right—I've told him loads of times. He just keeps telling me that this is the only way things'll work out. And he came up with that stupid idea about staying in Hawaii during the week after I complained about the commute—does he really think that's a reasonable solution to this mess? If you ask me, that's his way of solving the problem here so he can start carrying on with someone in Honolulu. If he didn't have some girl on the side, that never would've crossed his mind."

"Oh, I'm not so sure," Leslie mused. "Toki's not exactly known for his expertise with rocket science." Myeko looked sharply at her and she shrugged apologetically. "I'm sorry, but you know I'm right—and you've known him longer than I have. If _I_ know what I'm talking about, then how could you not?"

"Well…" Myeko hesitated.

"Do you really think Toki's the type to cheat on you?" asked Leslie. "Be honest."

Myeko bit her lip so hard Leslie was surprised she didn't draw blood. "Well…I did always have this crush on him, but it took him a really long time to see me as someone besides his sister's friend, you know? Now that I think about it, I'm not entirely sure he really wanted to marry me at all. Maybe he did it because his parents expected him to—you know how traditional they are. Oh geez…" Her tears overflowed, and Alexander began to cry as well, discomfiting Leslie.

"Hey, come on…sit here," she said and pushed her friend gently into a chair. "Come on, let's talk this over and see if we can figure out a rational solution."

They were still talking, sometimes arguing, and Alexander was still crying off and on when Roarke came back fully thirty minutes later. He watched them with open surprise for a minute or two before they saw him and suddenly cut off their discussion.

"Forgive me for interrupting," Roarke said, stepping into the study, "but apparently there is more to this issue than you seemed willing to let on, Myeko. But before I agree to your rather impulsive request—" He held up a hand when Myeko opened her mouth to protest. "Look at it from my point of view. You gave me barely a word of explanation when you first came here asking for a divorce."

She sighed. "Oh, I guess you're right. But Leslie and I've been going around and around the whole thing, and all it does is convince me more and more that getting a divorce is the only way out."

"Does Toki know you came here, and the reason why?" Roarke asked, noting in his peripheral that Leslie had slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes.

"Well…no," Myeko admitted with enormous reluctance.

"Then I suggest you return home and discuss this with him, in at least as much depth as you have been discussing it with Leslie, if not more," Roarke advised. "You must be very certain that this is what you want, for if you go forward with it, you may be damaging several lives beyond repair. Furthermore, I might remind you that island law states that both parties must agree to the divorce before it can be granted. I have seen no indication that Toki also desires a divorce. Before you make this request of me again, Myeko, I am afraid I must insist that you and Toki discuss it; then, if you still believe this is the only solution and Toki is in agreement, you must both come to see me, together."

Faced with the highest authority on the island, Myeko had no choice but to give in. "All right, Mr. Roarke," she said, sighing heavily and getting to her feet, gently bouncing Alexander in an attempt to comfort him. "Thanks for your time, and yours too, Leslie."

Once she had gone, Roarke turned his full attention to his daughter. "Are you all right?" he asked, coming back around the desk to look more closely at her.

She opened her eyes and wearily looked up at him. "My head…" she began; then, out of nowhere, her eyes rolled back and she slowly toppled forward in a dead faint.


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- September 19, 1993

"Exhaustion, Mr. Roarke," said Dr. Kara Lambert, a four-year employee whose office was located in the hospital. Roarke had rushed Leslie there seconds after she'd fainted; now she was tucked in bed in a room facing the sunset, currently in progress, and had yet to awaken from her faint. Dr. Lambert had questioned Roarke for almost twenty minutes regarding his daughter's health, habits, work schedule, eating preferences, and other things. "Pure and simple, from what you've told me."

"She always refused to take a vacation," Roarke said, staring at Leslie lying in bed, quiet and pale-faced. "She so loves her job, she won't leave it, even temporarily."

"You'll have to talk her into taking some fairly extensive time off," Dr. Lambert said, following Roarke's gaze. There was an uncharacteristically helpless look in his dark eyes, and she was secretly a little unnerved by this. The entire island regarded Roarke as a rock of sorts; but even rocks erode over time, she thought sadly. "How long has she been your assistant now? Since her husband was killed?"

"Quite nearly," said Roarke. "It's been just over three years. And in all that time, she has never taken so much as a day to herself."

Dr. Lambert stared at him in amazement. "I've heard of things like that before, but I never heard of someone doing it out of love for the job. I mean, I love being a doctor, but I want to get away from it once in a while." She grinned to soften the statement.

Roarke smiled back. "Oh, I'm sure of that," he said. "But I have never seen anyone else who was, and is, as fascinated as Leslie with the business I am in. Never once has she complained of any task I have set for her, never has she shied away from any request I have made. Perhaps I have asked too much of her." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "I should have known. I simply should have known…"

"Oh, all relatives say that," Dr. Lambert said comfortingly, "but how can they, when they're so close to the situation? She was happy, so you just accepted it and carried on with the business of your lives and livelihood. Something tells me you both probably thought this was a good sign, a way of healing from the loss of her husband."

"You have keen insight, doctor," Roarke commended her, studying her with interest. "I believe you're right. So…what, then, should I tell Leslie when she awakens?"

"Insist that she take at least a month off, and don't back down when she protests," Dr. Lambert advised. "If you need an assistant, then you should call in a substitute, whoever it might be. Maybe if you can arrange it with Mr. Tattoo…"

"Leslie would insist on spending her entire vacation right here on the island, in that case," Roarke said, chuckling. "She would never want to miss a visit from Tattoo. My goddaughter Julie is the only other person who has enough experience to step in; however, she is likely to protest quite loudly. She has no interest in being my assistant, even as a substitute."

"Who's substituting for whom?" murmured a weak voice from the bed, and both Dr. Lambert and Roarke turned to find Leslie awake, watching them. She returned Roarke's smile and then took in her surroundings, frowning in confusion. "Where am I?"

"In the hospital, Leslie," Roarke replied, settling on the edge of her bed and taking her limp hand in his. "You fainted in my study, and I brought you here. Dr. Lambert has diagnosed you with exhaustion; that is apparently the reason you've not been feeling well the past two days."

"Oh…holy cow," Leslie murmured, absorbing this with surprise. "There's something kind of surreal about the idea of me fainting." She and Roarke both chuckled, and Leslie's gaze shifted to Dr. Lambert. "So tell me, doc, am I gonna live?"

This time Dr. Lambert joined in their laughter. "No worries there," she said. "But there are a couple of conditions to your getting out of here…speaking of which, I need to get back to my office. I've got a couple of patients who should be in my waiting room right about now."

"Thank you, doctor," Roarke said, and Dr. Lambert smiled and left the room. He turned back to his daughter. "Well, young lady, it's my understanding that the only cure for your particular case of exhaustion is to take time off. At least a month."

Leslie's eyes popped. "A month!" she blurted. "But Father…who on earth would help you out? Julie won't do it for the world."

"Oh, she might, if she understood the circumstances," Roarke said. "That aside, the fact remains that you've worked nonstop for three years now. It's commendable indeed that you love your job and are so dedicated to it—but not at the cost of your health. If you argue with me, Leslie, I might have to fire you." He smiled to indicate he was teasing her, then grew serious again. "You are definitely going to take a vacation, and furthermore, you'll do it off the island."

"But…where?" Leslie protested helplessly. "I can't imagine a better place than here for a vacation. What on earth would I do?"

"I might remind you," Roarke said, "that you have a friend on a Mediterranean island whom you haven't seen in some two years now; and you might consider accepting the invitation Tattoo and Solange extended to you so long ago and pay them a visit in Paris. And I am sure there are other locales that hold some interest for you."

Leslie thought about this and slowly smiled. "That's a good start," she agreed. "Maybe a week on Arcolos and another week with Tattoo and Solange. But if you're really going to insist on a month, that still leaves two open weeks."

"Must I make all your choices for you?" Roarke asked with mock exasperation. "Perhaps if I leave you here alone to contemplate the idea, you'll come up with some suggestions of your own. In any case, it's time I returned to the main house as it is. Mariki and the rest of the kitchen staff have no idea what happened, as I rushed you here without stopping to inform anyone."

"Can't I go home with you?" Leslie asked. "I don't want to stay here overnight."

"That's not my decision to make, Leslie, I am sorry," Roarke said gently. "But if it would make you feel better, I'll look into it for you."

"Please do," she said, glancing around the room and shivering. "This reminds me too much of the time Tattoo had his car accident and almost died here."

Roarke sobered, his own memory of that time triggered as well. "I understand, child," he said quietly and smoothed her hair before rising. "Let me see if I can locate someone who has the authority to release you, if he or she feels it's allowable."

It took a good fifteen minutes before Roarke was able to find someone who had enough time between rounds to check Leslie over. "If it were me, I'd keep you here, Miss Leslie," Robin—the same nurse whom both Leslie and Roarke remembered treating Tattoo ten years before—remarked. "But you're Dr. Lambert's patient, so she really has the final say. She's with another patient at the moment, but I'll pass on your request to her."

Stymied and frustrated, Leslie gave Roarke a pleading look, but he lifted his hands and shook his head. "I have no say in this, Leslie, as you well know," he said.

"Robin, how long will Dr. Lambert be?" Leslie persisted.

"Geez, you make a terrible patient," Robin bantered, and Leslie made a face. "Okay, okay, I'll see what I can do, but try to have a little patience."

It was another half hour before Roarke, who had left for the evening meal despite his daughter's protests, came back to find Dr. Lambert giving Leslie a careful examination. Leslie smiled at her father when he entered the room but didn't speak for a moment, waiting for the verdict from Dr. Lambert.

"Well," the doctor said finally, "you seem in good spirits, and you don't look much the worse for wear. _But—"_ She eyed Leslie sternly. "If I discharge you, it's strictly on the stipulation that you do _not_ go with Mr. Roarke tomorrow morning to see the guests off."

Leslie's lower jaw sank and her face took on an outraged look. "But doctor—!"

"Take it or leave it," Dr. Lambert broke in implacably. "That's my final offer, and if you really want to go home tonight, you'll take it."

"All I'm doing is standing beside Father saying goodbye to people!" Leslie exclaimed, her disbelief eclipsing her common sense. "Honestly, it's not the least bit strenuous. I'll do anything else you say—I'll go to bed the moment I get home, I'll sleep all night, I'll go right back to bed the second the plane takes off and we get back home again—but please don't forbid me that. It's hardly anything."

Dr. Lambert stared at her, expression rigid, then turned to Roarke. "Is she right?"

Roarke smiled as though in apology. "Although I tend to agree with you, doctor, she _is_ correct. Very little happens while we are bidding farewell to our guests."

Dr. Lambert considered this while Roarke watched impassively and Leslie waited with rising hope. "You know, this is totally contrary to my better judgment. You had the complexion of a ghost when Mr. Roarke brought you in here, Miss Leslie, just so you know. I don't like the idea even of you getting out of this bed just to go home to your own." She rolled her eyes when Leslie geared up to protest again. "Pipe down already. All right—you can help Mr. Roarke see the guests off. But as you said—to bed the minute you get home tonight; and the minute you return from the plane dock tomorrow morning, back to bed again. I want you resting for at least the next five days, and in the meantime you can think about where you're going on vacation once you've regained enough equilibrium to travel." She turned to Roarke. "I'm going to give you a recommended menu for your cook so she can serve Leslie the most nutritious meals possible to help speed up her recovery. Tuesday Leslie can get up and move around, but she's expressly forbidden to do anything connected with her job." Again she shifted her attention to Leslie. "Use the time to sit on the porch and people-watch; read some good books; call your friends and have them over to lunch. But you make no business calls, you run no errands, you don't go anywhere at all. You're going to be a lazy vegetable for about five days. While you're lounging around, like I said, make some travel plans and start reserving seats on flights, things like that. Understand?"

"Understood," Leslie said, willing to obey any orders given her as long as she had her way about seeing the guests off. "We can consider my vacation as beginning tomorrow after the plane's gone, I guess."

"Heck no!" Dr. Lambert blared out immediately, startling both her and Roarke. "Your vacation starts when you get on a plane off this island and away to somewhere else—not before then. First you have that enforced rest, _then_ you take a vacation. I think Mr. Roarke will agree that he can manage without you for awhile, and when he explains things to Julie, I think she'll understand too. You are to stay abroad, and away from Fantasy Island, for at least four solid weeks—more if Mr. Roarke thinks he can spare you. And from now on, you take time off at least once a year, at least two weeks at a time."

"I suppose I have to leave the island for those vacations too," Leslie said.

"Not necessarily," Dr. Lambert replied. "This is a special case because you've pushed yourself so hard for so long. Quit thinking so far ahead, Miss Leslie, and just concentrate on planning your trip to wherever. Now before you drive me straight to the nut house, get out of here and go on home. Your clothes are on that chair over there." She sighed deeply, rolled her eyes once more and strode out of the room. Chuckling with great amusement, Roarke followed her to give Leslie privacy to change.

§ § § -- September 21, 1993

"Well," Leslie mused, poring over the travel brochures Roarke had picked up for her on his way back from Julie's B&B, "Australia sounds really interesting. Or maybe I should visit Mexico. I hear Cancún's beautiful—and I could spend my time there just lying on a beach and resting the way Dr. Lambert's so obsessed about."

Roarke laughed. "With your fair skin, Leslie Susan, I suspect you'd find yourself heavily sunburned in no time at all. I don't believe that Dr. Lambert meant the only thing you should do is lie around. The idea here is to give yourself a break from working."

"Why don't you ever take a vacation, Father?" Leslie asked, turning a truly curious look on him. "You never seem to get tired, but I can't imagine you going on forever and ever without giving yourself a break. And I don't think our traditional New Year's weekends off really count. Am I breaching some boundary in asking how long it's been since you were anywhere in the world besides Fantasy Island?"

"Yes, you are," said Roarke and grinned tolerantly at her. "My dear Leslie, we are not discussing me, and you know it. If you find it so difficult to arrive at a decision about where to spend your time besides Arcolos and Paris, perhaps you should consult your friends."

"Not a bad idea at all," Leslie agreed. "I'm glad you thought of that." She pulled the phone towards her and proceeded to invite Lauren, Maureen, Tabitha and Myeko to lunch. But Leslie's friends threw out so many suggestions that she had a difficult time wading through them all, and found herself on the phone with the travel agency over the next day or two getting prices for flights to one place or another. On Thursday the 23rd, she returned in a jeep with another batch of travel brochures, hopped out and made her way into the house, already perusing the topmost one. By now Roarke had noticed that she was eyeing African safaris and train tours of India.

"Perhaps," he suggested as she sat down, "you should close your eyes and choose a brochure at random; and whatever country that brochure touts, you will visit."

She looked up at him, trying to decide how serious he was; he wore a perfect poker face, and she frowned. "Am I being that indecisive?"

"More than you know, my child," Roarke said with the faintest trace of a smile. "Leslie, this was supposed to relax you, not tie you up in figurative knots. Think of a place you've always wanted to visit and have never yet had the chance to. Isn't there something that falls into that category?"

Leslie considered this, staring into space, the new brochures forgotten. Then something seemed to occur to her and she frowned slightly, her expression going thoughtful and interested. "You know, maybe there is a place like that," she murmured. She focused on Roarke. "Remember when you and I were looking for a way out of Prince Errico's insistence that I marry him? You found something about how the princess of Lilla Jordsö turned him down due to her being an only child, and I remembered that my grandmother had visited that island as a child. That would be a wonderful place to go. It's different, it's out-of-the-way, and it holds a certain interest for me. I think I just made my decision!"

Roarke sat back in his chair and smiled. "Well, then, what are you waiting for? You'd do well to begin arranging your flights and your lodgings immediately, if you are to leave on Saturday as Dr. Lambert recommended."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- September 25, 1993

About an hour after the weekend's guests had arrived (and been greeted by Roarke with Julie, resigned but good-natured in light of the reason), a small crowd gathered at the plane dock for the next departing charter. A few natives traveling to Hawaii for the weekend were already in the process of boarding; Leslie stood with all her friends, the quads, the sons of Myeko and Camille, and Roarke and Julie, waiting to board. Even Mariki was there to see her off, looking suspiciously bright-eyed.

"Good heavens, this is a bigger entourage than I had when I left here with Teppo," Leslie kidded, evoking laughter. "I'll be gone only a month, and I'll be visiting Michiko, so I'll have news from her. Any last-minute messages for me to give her?"

"Just tell her to send you back here in one piece, that's all," Lauren said, grinning. "I don't think Mr. Roarke would know what to do without you anymore."

"Sure he would," shot back Julie unexpectedly. "He comes over and rousts me out of my nice warm B&B and tosses me in to pinch-hit." She grinned, and they laughed again.

Mariki leaned over and actually pinched Leslie's cheeks, making her wince. "Now you make sure to come home all rested up and back in the prime of health, Miss Leslie," she scolded. "It's just not quite the same trying to feed Miss Julie. She doesn't eat."

"I do so!" Julie protested. "I just happen to eat my own cooking, that's all!"

Leslie turned to Roarke. "Father, maybe you'd better start having people over for dinner," she observed, rubbing her face in the wake of Mariki's pinches. "At the very least, it'd give Mariki someone to feed, and you won't find yourself living on leftovers."

Roarke chuckled. "As a matter of fact, I had thought to begin inviting fantasizers to dine at the main house," he said. "One on Saturday evening, the other for Sunday lunch. I daresay that will keep me from being too lonely while you're gone."

"And we can drop by now and then and see if you've heard from Leslie," Maureen added. "I can do with the exercise now that I'm expecting. Grady's beside himself—he's probably afraid I've turned into glass, because he treats me with kid gloves."

"You'd better go, Leslie," Roarke advised, casting a smile around the group and then focusing on his daughter. "You're already the last to board the plane, and they do have a schedule to keep." He came to her and hugged her close while Julie, Mariki and Leslie's friends watched. "Whatever else you do, relax, have a wonderful time, and don't trouble yourself with what's happening here at home. You'll be back here and into the thick of this business again soon enough, so try to accept that and concentrate on enjoying the places you're visiting."

"I'll do that," she agreed. "But I'll really miss you, Father, you know that. I'll try to call when I can and let you know how things are going along the way."

"Don't trouble yourself with that either," Roarke said, but smiled. "Now go."

She gave him a last squeeze, then detached herself from him and grinned at the others. "Well, here goes," she said. "See you guys in about a month!"

Amid calls of _"Bon voyage!"_ and "Have a great time!" she finally boarded the charter plane, feeling a peculiar sense of _déjà vu._ The last time she'd done this, she'd been with Teppo, leaving her home for what she'd thought was the rest of her life. Now she had an adventure in front of her, and she found herself looking forward to what lay ahead.

"What a relief," Roarke confessed as they all stood watching the plane taxi through the lagoon. "I was afraid I would have to call in the authorities." Amid a chorus of laughter, the group dispersed and headed for their respective homes.

‡ ‡ ‡

By the time she landed in Santi Arcuros more than fifteen hours after leaving Fantasy Island, Leslie was convinced her leg muscles had turned into overcooked spaghetti and her head into a large ball of fuzz. She'd had to change planes in Honolulu, Los Angeles, New York and Rome, in the last of which she had found herself boarding a rickety-looking commuter plane stenciled with the legend "Rainbow Air: the Airline of Arcolos". She had been one of only three passengers on that flight; little wonder, she thought, since locally it was about two in the morning. She was going to be reliving Saturday all over again, because she had crossed the International Date Line within minutes of takeoff from Fantasy Island. The other two passengers looked as if they had done this on hundreds of prior occasions; they collected suitcases from the lone flight attendant who apparently also acted as porter, then strode across the tarmac to a bus that waited at the far end.

Leslie gathered her suitcase and peered uncertainly around the area. The airport, in contrast to the plane, looked brand-new and was well-lit and inviting. About to go and find a place to wait for her transportation to the palace, she was halted by the pilot. "Wait, _donni,"_ he advised, using the Arcolosian term that was on a par with the Italian _donna_ from which it had descended. "Here is your transportation now."

The lights spilling out of the terminal windows illuminated a long black limousine which glided to a stop a short distance from the airplane. The back door popped open and Michiko Tokita, now Princess Michiko of Arcolos, erupted out, rushing for Leslie and throwing her arms around her with a joyful shout. "You're finally here! Oh Leslie, it's so wonderful to see you!" She pulled back and examined her friend critically. "Oh my gosh, Mr. Roarke was right when he said you'd collapsed from exhaustion. Come on, let's get you back to the palace pronto. Nobody else is up, so all we have to do is get you to your room and you can sleep all day if you want." Without waiting for a reply, she tugged a totally befuddled Leslie along to the waiting limo.

"It's hot here," Leslie finally remarked inanely, so drained from all her flights that she could no longer think. Her return greeting to Michiko had been automatic, as had her smile of relief that someone was there to pick her up; but her brain seemed to have ground to an unceremonious halt.

"Oh, that's normal for here," Michiko said, prying Leslie's suitcase and overnight bag from her hands and thrusting them at the driver who had come around to stash the luggage in the trunk. "Don't worry, we have air conditioning to spare. You go first." She gently prodded Leslie toward the car, and Leslie crawled in and sank into a plush seat with a deep sigh. The interior of the car was cool and blessedly low in humidity. Michiko got in after her and pulled the door shut. "Errico probably thinks I'm insane," she chattered cheerfully. "I've been sitting up waiting all night, staring at the clock. I've been too excited to sleep. It's going to be so much fun having you here with us, Leslie. I can't wait to start showing you all around Arcolos. We can start with Santi Arcuros, and then you've got to take a trip into the Maragnas…that's our mountain range, and the rainbow-gem mines are there. Errico keeps a private summer home in the forest on the shore of Lake Oligati, and we should definitely visit Li Ciento on the east coast. It's a gorgeous resort town." She halted and stared at Leslie, who was watching her with blank eyes, apparently trying her utmost to be polite. "Oh dear, just listen to me. I'm turning into an awful chatterbox, but it's just so good to have one of my friends here after all this time. You're the first one to come and visit!"

Leslie grinned. Tired though she was, she was happy to see Michiko as well. "I guess I'll have to start laying a guilt trip on the other girls," she remarked, making Michiko laugh merrily. "Well, I'll be here for ten days, so there's plenty of time for us to do all those little side trips you're talking about." She yawned hugely in spite of herself. "I'm sure Dr. Lambert back home would be horrified to see me now. Did Father tell you exactly what happened last weekend?" While Leslie had been sleeping most of Monday away, Roarke had put through a call to the palace and spoken with Michiko to advise her that Leslie was coming for a visit and why.

"He outlined it," Michiko said, gazing at her curiously. "He said you fainted?"

Leslie nodded and told her what had happened the previous weekend in whatever detail she could prize from her memory, which seemed to be closing down on her even as she spoke. After a few minutes Michiko held up her hands. "Never mind," she said. "You're all but asleep on your feet, and five days of enforced idleness after three years with no time off just isn't enough. Let's get you off to your room at the palace before you faint again and scare twenty years off my life." She rose and lurched forward through the long back compartment of the limo to the glass divider that cut her and Leslie off from the driver, rapping on the glass a few times. It lowered a couple of inches and Michiko gave the driver some instructions in Arcolosian. A word or two of acknowledgement came back, and Michiko sat down where she was while the divider rose again and the car gained immediate and surprising speed. Leslie, who'd been perilously close to dozing off, was awakened again by the movement and looked up with some alarm.

"What kind of roads do you have on this island?" she asked.

Michiko laughed. "Don't worry, they're the best. The palace is actually about ten miles southeast of the city and we're already over halfway there. I just told the driver to make it as short a trip as possible."

"And I notice you speak Arcolosian," Leslie observed, yawning again.

Michiko nodded. "Needless to say, I had to," she said. "Most of the servants don't speak English." She too yawned, a result of Leslie's action. "Now that you're here, I can get some sleep too. Hang on, Leslie, it's just a little farther."

Within the next ten minutes the car had wound its way up a curving gradient and come to a halt under a softly-lit portico. The driver followed Michiko and Leslie inside, toting Leslie's bags and handing them over to a tall, thin man with a saturnine face who reminded Leslie of Lurch from the old _Addams Family_ television series. "Oh yes," Michiko said with a slight giggle. "Our butler, Giohanni. Not only does he not speak English, he doesn't speak at all. Just follow him, Leslie, he knows where your room is."

_Is that a good thing?_ Leslie thought, eyeing Giohanni with caution, but made her way along in the butler's wake with Michiko alongside her. After hiking what seemed like a mile down a corridor with a floor so highly polished that Leslie could see everything reflected in it like a slightly distorted mirror, Giohanni brought them to a stop in front of an ornately carved, very heavy wooden door. He set down the bags, extracted a shiny silver key from some hidden pocket and unlocked the door, stepping aside and holding out one hand to indicate that Leslie and Michiko should enter.

Despite her near-comatose state, Leslie was stunned by the beauty of the room where she would be sleeping for the next nine nights. The bed was a king-sized canopy affair, all intricate fussiness, but the fluffy ivory comforter issued an irresistible invitation. There was a round table with two chairs; a huge wardrobe to which Giohanni took Leslie's bags; and a door that stood open enough to reveal a sparkling bathroom on the wall across from the bed. On the wall opposite the door there was an enormous picture window that was one solid sheet of glass; in the far distance Leslie could see the twinkling lights of Santi Arcuros, and there was a striking view of the clear night sky. The wall on either side of this window consisted entirely of built-in shelves, most of which were empty.

"Wow," mumbled Leslie, blinking and wondering if she would remember where she was in the morning.

"Glad you like it," Michiko said. "Just pull that cord next to the window and you can shut out all the lights so it's nice and dark for you to sleep." She bestowed another hug on Leslie and grinned into her friend's sleepy face. "You poor thing. Go on to bed, and sleep as long as you want. I'll put out the word not to disturb you."

"What happens when I finally do wake up?" Leslie asked.

"See that phone on the table beside the bed? Just pick it up and punch out the number 10—that's the palace switchboard. This place is so big we have our own telephone system and a phone in every room. Tell them you want to talk to me, and they'll connect you. That's all you need to know now. Okay?"

Leslie smiled. "Perfect. In that case, I'll see you sometime tomorrow."

"Great." Michiko beamed at her. "Good night." She turned and called, "Giohanni!" The laconic butler pivoted silently away from the wardrobe and crossed the room, going out the door without so much as a glance to either side. Michiko waved impishly and let herself out, pulling the door shut behind her.

Leslie slowly crossed the room to the window and let her head fall back till she was staring at the stars. She lingered long enough that she nearly did collapse where she stood, because the Milky Way was clearly visible overhead and she had not had the privilege to see that since she was in elementary school in Connecticut. Finally, sapped of even her last inner reserves, she turned and grasped the thick silken braided rope that brought a heavy curtain down over the window. She then found her most comfortable nightshirt in her suitcase, changed for bed, brushed her teeth and doused all the lights, feeling her way to the bed and crawling under the comforter with a long weary sigh. She was deeply asleep less than a minute later.

‡ ‡ ‡

When she did awaken, the room was dim but she could see her surroundings, and for a moment she was confused before memory returned with a rush. Leslie rolled over in bed and squinted at the clock next to the phone; it was almost noon. But she felt much better and was more than ready to get up for the day. Her stomach rumbled as if to second the decision, and she grinned to herself and picked up the phone, punching out 10 as Michiko had instructed her to do the night before.

A voice replied in Arcolosian and Leslie hesitated for just a second before requesting, "Princess Michiko, please."

"Ah, _donni_ Hamilton. Her Highness said you would call for her. One moment, if you please." Leslie swung her feet around and sat up over the side of the bed, waiting. There were a few clicks, the double buzz characteristic of European telephones, and then Michiko answered. "Leslie, is that you? Did you sleep all right?"

"I slept fine," she said. "Just now woke up and never stirred till this moment. I feel great. Obviously I missed breakfast, but what's on the agenda for today?"

"Well, first things first. I'll come to your room, because this place is like a rat's maze. It took me a month to learn my way around when I first got here. So you get up and get dressed, and I'll be there in a little bit. Lunch is in about ten minutes, and the children are eager to meet you. Errico's looking forward to seeing you again too."

"Okay," said Leslie. "Thanks, Michiko."

A few minutes past noon, Michiko tapped on the door and glanced around the room; Leslie had lifted the curtain to admit enough light by which to see, but otherwise had left things as they were. "Good," said Michiko. "Think of it as a hotel—the servants will straighten up while you're out of the room. Lunch is waiting and so are Errico and the kids. We eat a lot of seafood here, being on an island, but there are a lot of French and Italian elements to Arcolosian cuisine too. So we have the best of two wonderful ethnic menus. And we really need a chance to talk about what's going on back on Fantasy Island. You need to catch me up on all the news from home." Michiko chatted excitedly on while she led Leslie through a warren of corridors, up one and down another till Leslie was all but dizzy from the numerous twists and turns. At last Michiko opened the door to a large room with a twenty-foot ceiling; in here was a long table that could seat at least three dozen persons, and the far end of the room seemed to be open to the elements.

"There's no wall," Leslie said in surprise.

"This room opens out onto the terrace where the palace pool is located," Michiko said. "This is the summer dining room, by the way. Sit anywhere, and let's have some lunch." She and Leslie took chairs at the table where Prince Errico and the three children were waiting for the two women to join them.

"Leslie, my dear, what a treat to see you!" Errico said expansively, making her grin sheepishly. "My dearest Michiko has been chattering of nothing else for nearly a week, ever since Mr. Roarke called here and told her you were coming to visit us. I understand part of the reason you are here is under medical orders."

Leslie nodded and summarized the events of the previous weekend while servants materialized from the perimeters of the room and served the six diners. "So, well, you're stuck with me for the next week and a half," she said jokingly. "Just don't feel you have to go out of your way to entertain me, especially today. I'm still a little knocked out from all the flights I had to take yesterday, and I'll be just as happy to spend today lazing around here, while Michiko and I get caught up on everything."

"Of course, of course. You are resting, after all," said Errico, nodding. "Tell me, how is your illustrious father, Mr. Roarke? Is his island still as popular?"

"Every bit," Leslie said and grinned. "Sometimes I think we get busier every year." She looked around at the three children, who were watching her curiously. "Hello, Your Highnesses. I'm not sure you remember me—you didn't see very much of either me or my father when you were on Fantasy Island."

The children, now thirteen, twelve and ten years old respectively, looked at one another and then grinned. _"Madi_ talks about you and her other friends on Fantasy Island all the time," said twelve-year-old Princess Adriana cheerfully. "So we feel that we know you, except that we never really met any of you."

They all laughed. "Well, then, in that case, I'm Leslie Hamilton—I'm Mr. Roarke's daughter and assistant," Leslie said, "by way of formal introduction. Now refresh my memory here, so I don't wander around trying to think of your names all the time."

The older boy told her he was Prince Paolono; his sister reminded Leslie of who she was, and the younger boy explained that he was Prince Marcolo. Leslie nodded and smiled at them. "Pleased to meet all of you."

"Do you really see a lot of magical things on Fantasy Island?" Adriana asked. _"Madi_ says they happen there all the time."

Leslie and Michiko looked at each other with knowing grins, making Errico and the children all wonder what the two knew that they didn't. "Well, Father prefers that most of the business conducted on Fantasy Island stays there," Leslie said. "A guest's fantasy is confidential, and we don't just spread information around at random."

"But you used to tell us about the fantasies every Monday at school lunch," Michiko reminded her. "Did Mr. Roarke know you were doing that? I mean, if he did, he never stopped you, since you did it right up till we all graduated."

"Oh, I think he knew," Leslie said, "but he also knew that he'd made it very clear to me from the beginning that I wasn't to tell just anyone I met. And after he met you and the other girls once I started school the week after I first arrived, I think he realized that I was going to talk about my weekends. Which, of course, is why I asked you guys to keep everything I told you to yourselves. And even at that, I never told you all the details."

"No, you always summarized things," Michiko remembered, "and sometimes if something funny happened, you'd tell us about that. But all we ever heard was 'so-and-so wanted to be a rock star', or 'what's-her-name asked to see ancient Rome', things like that."

"Right," said Leslie. "Father never mentioned it after that. I guess he knew I'd picked friends who could be counted on to keep secrets."

Michiko grinned a little sheepishly. "But you never knew just how much we had to restrain Myeko sometimes," she confessed, making Leslie's eyes go wide. "There's a gossip columnist in her soul, all right."

Leslie laughed. "Funny you should mention that. Lately she's been pestering Toki that she wants to start working for the _Fantasy Island Chronicle_ in just that capacity." She bit her lip. "Which has led to problems, actually. I'll tell you about it after lunch."

Some two hours later, while the prince was handling state matters with his father and the children had gone horseback riding with two of the palace's stable hands, Leslie and Michiko lay by the pool on lounge chairs, dressed in swimsuits, slathered in sunscreen and fortified with mildly alcoholic drinks. "Okay, now, what's this about Myeko wanting to be a gossip columnist?" Michiko prodded.

"I guess Toki's taking exception," Leslie said and recounted Myeko's complaints. "It's gotten to her so much by now that she wants Father to grant her a divorce from Toki."

Michiko gasped and sat up, lifting her sunglasses to gawk at Leslie in horror. "Are you serious? Myeko was always crazy about my brother. I can't believe she'd ask that."

"Well, she did," Leslie said, sighing gently. "Michiko, since Toki _is_ your brother and all, naturally you'd have at least some idea of what his feelings toward Myeko are and were. Myeko brought up the fear that maybe Toki married her because your parents expected him to marry, and since she was in love with him anyway, she was the most convenient and obvious choice. What was your impression about Toki and Myeko?"

Michiko slowly settled back down on her lounge, absently tugging her sunglasses back into place and staring into the brassy blue sky. "I can't say that Toki ever really talked about Myeko much, at least not before we'd all finished college anyway. But you're right about Mother and Father expecting him—all of us really—to get married. Reiko's still single, but she's only 24, so there's no real hurry for her. But you know all the rest of us are married now, and that was just the way things were supposed to be."

"But did he ever talk about who he might've wanted to marry?" Leslie asked.

"No, I don't think so," Michiko murmured. "I do know one thing: he had a crush on you for several years, Leslie. I know you probably think that's ridiculous, but it's true. He used to ask me questions about you now and then. It's just that he made such a botch job of it when you and he first met each other, he was never sure how to handle it after that, and I guess he figured it was a lost cause. But he really did like you a lot, Leslie."

"Hmph," mumbled Leslie uncomfortably. "He had a strange way of showing it."

"Not that it matters," Michiko said and grinned. "After you met and married Teppo, it became a moot point. That's when he started dating Myeko. Now the thing is, Leslie, all the time you were living in Finland with Teppo, Myeko really had to work on him. As far as the rest of us knew, he'd lost interest in you; but he never seemed to have the kind of feeling for Myeko that she did for him—or even the sort of feeling he used to have toward you. The more I think about it, the more I'm beginning to be afraid Myeko's right: that he married her because it was expected of him, and she was there and in love with him anyway, so that made it easy for him." She sighed and shook her head. "How long has he had that job in Hawaii, by the way?"

Leslie sat up in her turn and studied Michiko curiously. "I wouldn't know. Not that long, I guess, or Myeko would have complained about it long before this. I thought you'd know that. Was he working on Fantasy Island before?"

"Yes, in the casino," said Michiko. "He was making pretty good money there, but I suppose he didn't like it too much. Who knows with Toki?" She stared through her dark lenses into the sky again. "I'd hate to lose Myeko as a sister-in-law, but even though Toki's my brother, I have to admit I'm on her side. Toki's always been the black sheep really."

"I can believe that," Leslie remarked. "But it'd be harder on Myeko if she succeeds in getting her divorce, because Alexander's going to have a little brother or sister sometime in January. In view of that, I don't blame her for wanting to work for the newspaper."

"Oh, I'm getting a new niece or nephew!" Michiko exclaimed, brightening. "That's great! I just wish the circumstances weren't so sad. So…what about the other girls?"

"Camille's not watching the quads anymore—they're fourteen now, so they can stay at home by themselves. David keeps her busy now that he's three. Maureen married a lawyer named Grady Harding last November, and she had Father perform the wedding ceremony. Her mother was matron of honor and Myeko and Lauren and Tabitha and I were all bridesmaids—Camille was off-island with Jimmy and David at the time."

"Who's Tabitha?" Michiko broke in.

"Oh yes…Tabitha Zuma. Remember when I called last year asking about her from high school when she came to us for a fantasy? We got to be friends, and she's become part of our little group. She's still single, and so is Lauren. Maureen's pregnant now…about two months along. She says Grady acts like she's made of glass."

Michiko laughed. "Was this Grady Harding someone she met on the island?"

Leslie nodded. "He's actually about fifteen years older than we are. He's an attorney, and not just any attorney but a very good, honest and ethical one. They finally tore down that enormous mansion Maureen inherited from Russell St. Anthony, and they're building what Maureen describes as Grady's dream house on the site, along with a separate building where he plans to install his law practice. And Maureen wants to put in a garden where she can grow her own flowers and vegetables. I think the grounds'll be just gorgeous when they get everything done." She smiled faintly. "And as for us, everything's about the same as it's always been. Mariki's still the cook, my room doesn't look any different, and we still have red vehicles with red-and-white-striped canopies for roofs. About the only differences are that Father and I both tend to dress more informally during the week, and we got a computer to help knock out reply letters more efficiently. We had the main house painted last month, and I'm trying to grow a plumeria bush in front of the gazebo section of the porch where we always eat. So far it doesn't look like I'm much of a green thumb."

"Poor Leslie," Michiko teased. "Well, I'm glad you brought news from home; I don't hear much from any of the girls these days. They're all getting lazy about staying in touch, and I can't always initiate contact. The kids are sweet but they're spoiled in a lot of ways, and I'm constantly running around Arcolos appearing at charity projects or in parades or at high-class parties or political functions. I never knew being a princess could be such hard work. Now I appreciate what Princess Diana probably goes through." She grinned.

"Did you declare a personal vacation just for my visit?" Leslie teased, and they both laughed. "Gosh, this is really something, Michiko. It's gorgeous out here, and you have the most amazing view. Are the mountains high enough to get snowcaps in winter?"

They chatted for some time in this vein, till the sun dropped low enough that they noticed it was late in the afternoon and Michiko's three stepchildren came out to play in the pool for awhile. They had supper a little past seven that evening, and Leslie found herself yawning helplessly less than two hours after they'd finished eating. Michiko urged her to get some more sleep, and she went to bed without much fuss.

Her ten days on Arcolos drifted lazily by; she made friends with Paolono, Adriana and Marcolo, and saw quite a few other locales beyond the palace. She and Michiko took shopping excursions in Santi Arcuros and the southern coastal city of Enecola, went on a tour of the largest rainbow-gem mine in the Maragnas, and spent a couple of days on Lake Oligati at the royal vacation house, sailing on the lake and entertaining one of Errico's brothers who dropped in for a visit. His interest in Leslie was ruthlessly quashed by Errico, who told him firmly that Leslie was her father's only child and as such, was off-limits. Michiko and Leslie had a long private laugh about that later on.

The evening before she was to leave Arcolos, Leslie got a visit from Michiko, who offered at first to help her pack and then smiled and settled on the bed when Leslie declined. "So where are you off to next?" Michiko asked.

"Paris," Leslie said, "to visit Tattoo and his family. Even when Teppo was alive, we never managed to get there to see them despite that I was about as close to France as I was ever going to get. Anyway, I haven't met Tattoo's children, and I want to see his house and his art gallery and see how he's doing. The last time we saw him was at the engagement gala two years ago, and Tattoo's so busy that we seldom hear from him."

"Ah," said Michiko. A grin spread across her features. "As a matter of fact, you're likely to have company. Errico and that one servant of his who speaks English are about to head for Paris themselves to peruse the stock in that very art gallery. Errico just loves it, to the point where he refuses to go anywhere else. Tattoo gets all Errico's business."

"Your husband has very good business sense," Leslie said with a broad grin. "He has a servant who knows English?"

"A recent hire," Michiko said, "from someplace in Ireland from the sound of it. He has enough of a brogue to give him away in no time flat. His name's Rogan something, I think. And he's a looker, Leslie—so be careful he doesn't turn on that Irish charm, or you're going to have your heart broken."

Leslie smiled wryly, an old sadness creeping into her eyes. "Not too likely," she told Michiko. "It may have been three years since Teppo died, but I'm no more ready for a new relationship now than I was then. I've lost too many people in my life, and Teppo's death was probably the last straw. No, I'm not taking that risk again. Don't worry about me."

Michiko studied her and shook her head a little. "I don't know if that's the healthiest attitude in the world, Leslie, but I have to admit that I can understand why you feel like that. Well, it's not as if you really _have_ to be involved with someone. Anyway, have a good trip, and give Tattoo and his family our greetings and love."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- October 5, 1993

The following morning, Leslie, Prince Errico and a very handsome young man piled into the palace limousine for the ride to the airport. "A bright morning to you, my dear," Errico greeted Leslie, lifting her hand and pressing a kiss to it. She smiled in acknowledgment. "So you are to visit Mr. Tattoo, the esteemed artist and entrepreneur! I don't know how he does it…he has an amazing eye for the very best in art, and he's astoundingly talented in his own right. Little wonder he can command the prices he does for his own work and that of other artists, and that he attracts only the wealthiest clientele. He's a genius, pure and simple—a sheer genius. Oh, yes, and this is my latest employee, Rogan Callaghan, who I might add seems to have a reasonably good artist's sense of his own."

Leslie shook hands with Rogan Callaghan, who smiled impersonally at her. She thought fleetingly that there seemed to be something oddly familiar about Callaghan's features; he was what was known as "Black Irish", with onyx hair and knowing dark eyes. "Pleased to meet you, Miss Hamilton," Callaghan said, dipping his head.

"Likewise, Mr. Callaghan," replied Leslie, smiling back as impersonally as he had at her. "Well, I guess we'd better be on our way."

"Quite so," Errico agreed. They settled into the car and were soon on the way to the airport; what little conversation there was came entirely from Errico and Callaghan in regard to their art excursion. Since they were taking a royal jet directly to Paris, they invited Leslie to come on their flight; but she declined, saying she wanted to get a few souvenirs in Rome before heading on to France.

When she landed at Orly Airport early that afternoon, she was met by a delighted Solange, who greeted her with a big hug. _"Bonjour_, Leslie! Welcome to France! I thought you would have come with Prince Errico."

"No, I had my flight booked, and anyway, I wanted to have the chance to get a few souvenirs of Rome, even if they were just airport trinkets," Leslie kidded. They both laughed. "Where's Tattoo?"

Solange's sweet girlish features grew shadowed, and Leslie felt her stomach take the familiar plunge that always assaulted her when she got bad news about someone she was close to. "He's not feeling well, Leslie," she said softly, breaking her gaze from Leslie's. "He pushes himself so hard, and I'm afraid he's going to do irreparable damage. For the last month I've made him stay at home and rest."

"I can relate to that," Leslie remarked with some irony. "And I bet he hates it."

"Oh, believe me, you don't know how right you are," Solange said. "Maybe you can get some sense into his head where I can't, and convince him to take better care of himself. I do know he'll be thrilled to see you—he's been looking forward to your visit with such joy and impatience, you just can't imagine. He'll have you talking till you're forty, wanting news of Fantasy Island and Mr. Roarke."

"I'm sure," murmured Leslie, unable to banish images of her honorary uncle sick, weak, incapacitated. "How bad is he, Solange, really? Don't mince words, please."

Solange's eyes filled with tears. "The doctors aren't very optimistic," she said in a low voice. "They say his internal organs are nearly all normal-sized, and his body just isn't big enough to hold them all. They're beginning to malfunction and give him more trouble as time goes by. He has to sleep sitting up just to breathe."

Leslie gasped and grabbed her arm. "My God, Solange…"

"Come on. There's a Métro terminal right here at the airport, and one of the commuter lines has a station just half a kilometer from our house. Let's get your luggage and hurry back." Solange towed Leslie to the baggage carousel.

Less than an hour later they had disembarked at the station Solange had described and were walking briskly down a quiet country lane in the early-fall sunshine. The air was still warm with summer and there was a heavy scent of roses. "How beautiful," Leslie said, gazing around her at the green fields and leafy shade trees. "It reminds me of New England in some ways." The fall foliage was just beginning to come into evidence.

"Good call," Solange told her with a half-smile. "In about three weeks, those trees will be alive with color. Every October, Tattoo spends all his spare time and every moment of his weekends painting those colors. Those are his all-time best-selling works, and there's a frenzy of anticipation around the beginning of October. His autumn paintings are famous across Europe, and they sell out years in advance."

Leslie watched her, feeling that diving sensation again in her abdomen. "But of course, he can never turn out enough to satisfy demand, right?" she said.

"No, he can't. It's not humanly possible. The prices he sets on those paintings are positively astronomical, but they sell instantly." Solange stopped in front of a high stone wall and pushed open an intricately-wrought iron gate in the middle. "This is home." She ushered Leslie in ahead of her so that she could get the full effect; and what Leslie beheld was a small but magnificent chateau. It appeared to be about half again the size of the main house on Fantasy Island, and the grounds were dotted with old-growth trees that dappled the roof and walls with shade. There were bushes all over the lawn, some still blooming; marigolds lined the brick walk to the front door, and low wooden barrels of chrysanthemums stood sentinel at either side of the steps. The mums were a riot of tawny color, threatening to spill over the sides of their containers. The exterior of the house was done English Tudor style with leaded-glass windows in individual diamond panes; the roof was steeply pitched and shingled in gray to help reflect the sun in the warm seasons.

"This is…" Leslie stared in wonder. "Solange, this is just indescribable. What an incredibly beautiful home you and Tattoo have!"

"We looked for a long time before we found this place," Solange said, pride in her voice. "It's our dream home. Come on in—you have a room of your own while you're with us. Tattoo and I have made sure the children learned English right alongside French, so you'll have no trouble talking with them. They're very curious to meet the lady their father keeps referring to as his honorary niece, so they may just start calling you Cousin Leslie."

Leslie giggled. "I'd love it. I never had any real cousins, so it would be fun to consider your kids my cousins. I can't wait to see inside."

"Right this way," Solange said and led her into the front door. The rooms within were furnished in unmistakably French style, warm and inviting; Tattoo's paintings, Leslie saw immediately, were in clear evidence in every room. In the room she was using during her stay, the painting made her gasp. It was of the main house, in such perfect detail that Leslie was initially confused as to whether it was actually a painting at all. The colors were so bright that they seemed to leap off the canvas. She gaped.

"Is that a photo or…" she began, flabbergasted.

Solange grinned. "No, it's a painting. Tattoo insisted I put you in this room," she said. "He'll ask you what you think of it later on, so be warned."

"It's gorgeous," Leslie said, unable to take her gaze off it. "And it's absolutely perfect. He got every detail exactly right. If only Father could see it."

"Your father…?" Solange said, looking confused.

That finally distracted Leslie from the painting and she smiled sheepishly. "If you can stand to wait till I can tell Tattoo about it, you'll get the whole story later. What a lovely place this is. Simply stunning."

Solange smiled. _"Merci beaucoup_, Leslie," she said. "Tell me, is there anything you want or need?"

"Only one thing—to see Tattoo," Leslie said. "Is he up to having visitors?"

"Even if he weren't, he'd insist on seeing you," Solange said. "The children have their rooms up here, and ours is downstairs. It opens onto a terrace so we can slip outside any time we like. Come on."

Leslie followed Solange down the stairs and toward a back corner of the house, where a large, airy bedroom had been tucked away for added privacy. Leslie found herself gawking again from the doorway: the room was huge, and on the far wall were two French doors, one of which opened onto the terrace Solange had mentioned, the other into what looked like a sunroom whose walls were made entirely of glass. Easels and canvases littered this glass room in what looked like random disarray. As Leslie stood taking in the scene, the French door popped open and a very familiar figure emerged into the bedroom.

"So you finally got here!" Tattoo greeted her teasingly in his familiar gravelly voice with its weighty French accent. "After all these years, you decided to show up!"

"Tattoo!" Leslie cried, and neither of them gave a second thought to her dropping to her knees in the middle of the floor where they shared a long, heartfelt hug. Solange stood nearby watching with a smile, tears standing in her eyes. Tattoo, peering over Leslie's shoulder, noticed and winked at her.

"So what do you think of this dump?" Tattoo inquired, pulling back from her to stare into her face while she settled back on her heels and grinned foolishly at him. "What a mess it is, huh? And all this cheap art all over the walls…"

"Oh, knock it off, you phony, you," Leslie said and burst out laughing. "Tattoo, this is the most beautiful house I've ever seen outside of Fantasy Island. I wish Father could see it. He'd be almost as overwhelmed as I am. And what a perfect setting. I bet you can't stand to leave here and go into Paris every day to run that art gallery, huh?"

"Aw, I manage to tear myself away," Tattoo said with a grin. To Leslie he looked fine, which sent a shaft of pure relief spearing through her. Had Solange exaggerated his health problems? "And incidentally, who's this 'Father' you're talking about? I thought you disowned your father years and years ago."

"Not Michael Hamilton," Leslie said. "Maybe you should both sit down; it's kind of a long story."

"Why don't we have a snack in the kitchen?" Solange put in. "We have some wine and some very good bread that our next-door neighbor brought over." She switched to French and asked Tattoo a question, to which he responded with a vaguely impatient tone in his voice, but with sparkling eyes. Solange grinned.

"Tattoo tells me he feels just fine, now that you're here. Well, then, let's go."

Around a varnished wooden table adorned with a long ivory lace runner, where they sat sipping wine and nibbling on soft, buttery French bread, Leslie explained the story of how she had come to refer to Roarke as "Father." Tattoo had a knowing look on his round features almost the entire time; Solange was astonished. "So," Tattoo said when she had concluded her story, "does the boss mind you calling him that?"

"No, he was flattered," Leslie recalled, grinning at the memory. "It had occurred to me when I told Michael Hamilton that it was really Mr. Roarke who was my father in all the ways that matter, but I held off even then—I wasn't sure how he'd take it. Then, when Mom told me not to hold back from him, I knew it was the right thing to do. After all, he and I are family, you know."

"That you are," Tattoo agreed warmly and sipped from his glass. They were silent for a moment; then he regarded Leslie with a serious look. "I suppose Solange told you about my health troubles lately."

"She mentioned them, yes," said Leslie cautiously, watching him as if afraid he would topple over before her eyes. "Tattoo, how are you really doing? I mean…folks at home have been worried about me on account of overworking myself, but from the way Solange tells it, you do three times as much as I do. I had visions of you bedridden and barely able to speak."

"At death's door, you mean?" translated Tattoo wryly, with a sharp but affectionate look at a sheepish, red-faced Solange. "Not exactly that, no. Don't worry, Leslie, sometimes Solange exaggerates. But on the other hand, I've been thinking about things and I realized that she does have a valid point on one thing. I do work too hard. As of last month, I've been going into the city only once a week to make sure things are going well at the gallery, and I've left the actual running to my two most trusted employees. I spend a lot more time at home painting now, although Solange thinks I do too much of that as well."

"Better you paint too much than work too much, I say," Leslie told him.

"_Thank_ you!" Tattoo exclaimed wholeheartedly, surprising her. "Finally, someone who thinks like I do on that subject! I've been trying to tell everyone—Solange, the doctor, our friends—painting relaxes me, it makes me feel good. There's hardly anything strenuous about it. I think while you're here, I'm going to drag you with me to see everyone who's told me I spend too much time in my studio and have you tell them what you just told me."

Leslie giggled merrily. "Hey, anything for my favorite honorary uncle. Incidentally, where's the next generation? Are they hiding or something?"

"Oh, you'll meet them soon," Solange said. "I'd better get started on the evening meal—we're having quite a little feast in honor of your arrival, Leslie, and don't bother asking if I need help. I love cooking, and I want you to be surprised by the menu."

"Are you sure?" Leslie asked, watching her rise from the table.

"Positive. Stay out here and get caught up with Tattoo, and tell him what's been happening on the island," Solange urged. _"Mon chér_, if you need anything, say so."

"But of course," said Tattoo, smiling after her as she left the room. He heaved a contented sigh and turned back to Leslie. "So. Before I let you talk my ear off, I guess I should tell you a little about the kids. Patrick just turned nine, and Antoinette's seven now. Mireille will be two at the end of January. She's been napping all afternoon, and the older kids are playing with friends of theirs. Patrick and Antoinette both speak English, so you'll be able to answer all their questions. And believe me, they'll have a lot of them."

"I just bet," Leslie said, grinning. "So what day do you go into the gallery?"

"Usually Wednesdays," Tattoo said. "This week I go in tomorrow, though, because Prince Errico is here for one of his purchasing trips. You're coming with me, of course. Wait a minute. You just came from Arcolos yourself, didn't you? Did you come in with him?"

"No," said Leslie and told him why. "By the way, Michiko sends her love and greetings from the family. She and I had a great time catching up, and I saw more of Arcolos than I'm sure most tourists do. And the prince warned his brother away from me."

"Yeah? How come?" Tattoo asked.

"For the same reason Errico himself couldn't marry me," Leslie said. "I'm Father's only child and the one inheritor of Fantasy Island. That equates Father with a king or president, since the island is solely his and he's the highest authority. And Arcolos has a law that states that a royal is expressly forbidden to marry another royal if the latter is the only child of the ruling authority of his or her country."

"Ah," said Tattoo, dark eyes sparkling. "I see. And the prince wanted to marry you, then? You should have, Leslie…you'd make a perfect princess."

"A perfectly unsuitable princess, you mean," Leslie shot back spiritedly. "I had no interest in Errico; it was too soon after Teppo died, and even now I'm not interested in a new relationship. I had to disabuse Michiko of that little notion too, so I'm telling you now, before you get any ideas about marrying me off. I love being Father's assistant, and nothing in the world will take me away from Fantasy Island like that again."

"You're away from it now," Tattoo pointed out, grinning.

Leslie rolled her eyes. "Literal to the end, aren't you? You know visits don't count. Anyway, Michiko is much better for him. That man had a way of trying to think for me, and I absolutely can't stand that. I have my own brain, thank you very much; I don't need to borrow someone else's."

Tattoo burst out laughing. "Great way to put it. Okay, so you're a happily single woman, working yourself to death alongside the boss." She glared at him in mock threat, and he grinned. "You said yourself that you're recovering from exhaustion. You can do only so much, Leslie. On the other hand, I'm glad it happened in a way, since it finally got you out here to see us. Now, since we're on the subject, tell me what's going on back on Fantasy Island. How's the boss doing? Any big changes since I was there last?"

With that, Leslie found herself in the midst of a long narrative getting Tattoo caught up on events on Fantasy Island; he listened avidly, nodding often, laughing now and then. When she finished some thirty minutes later, he shook his head. _"Sacre bleu_, you've really been busy. No wonder you're exhausted. So Jean-Claude finally retired, did he? Any idea where he went? I used to love his Alaskan king-crab legs."

"I'm not sure," Leslie said. "I think he was planning to return here to France, but I don't know if he actually did. We haven't heard from him and we don't really expect to. On the other hand, we did hear from some old buddies of yours." Grinning, she told him about a recent encounter she and Roarke had had with Cornelius Kelly and Alphonse; Tattoo roared with laughter.

"Never a dull moment," he said, shaking his head. "Things are just as interesting as ever on Fantasy Island, I see. Okay, well…" He sat back in his seat, thinking for a moment, while Leslie waited, watching him and smiling. "We're not really on a schedule around here, except for sending Patrick and Antoinette off to school in the morning. Prince Errico always calls here before he's ready to go into the gallery, so we don't need to leave till we hear from him, and that's likely to be late in the morning if he sticks to his usual habits. So you can sleep as late as you like tomorrow. I think, once we've taken care of business in the gallery, we can wander around Paris a little before we come back home. Solange has Mireille all day, and what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

"Only if we don't walk all over the city," Leslie warned him, her gaze growing a bit troubled. "I don't object to seeing Paris, but I don't want you wearing yourself out on my account. We can just as easily take the Métro, and you know it. Besides, I'm not up to so much walking myself, and it certainly wouldn't do anything for my exhaustion."

"No, you're right, it wouldn't," Tattoo agreed, and they eyed each other before starting to laugh in unison. "You think you're doing me a favor, and I think I'm doing you a favor," he chortled. "I guess we're even!"

Leslie nodded, giggling. "We both have good reasons not to walk, so I guess we can just leave it at that. In that case, we'll plan on touring Paris tomorrow. What about the rest of the week?"

"No plans," Tattoo said, folding his hands over his stomach. "I don't see any reason for there to be any plans. You're here for ten days, right? Remember, since you're my honorary niece, that makes you a member of the family. You just make yourself at home and do whatever you'd normally do. And by the way, if you want to call the boss and tell him how your vacation's going, that's fine by me, as long as you let me talk with him too."

"I should think that would go without saying," Leslie said, grinning again. "Well, then, we'll pick out a day and figure out what time would be most convenient, and put a call through." She too settled back in her chair and heaved a sigh. "I'm glad I came, Tattoo, and I'm sorry I didn't do it before, especially now that I see what a magnificent home you have here. This place is just beautiful. Oh…if it's not too much of an imposition…do you think I could have a look at some of your works in progress in your studio?"

"Sure, of course," Tattoo said, smiling broadly. "Just tell me when you'd like to see them. What do you think of that painting in your room?"

"I thought it was a photograph," Leslie told him. "It's absolutely perfect and every detail is exactly right. Did you actually paint that from memory?"

"You think I could forget what that place looks like after living and working there for so many years?" scoffed Tattoo. "I spent at least half my life on Fantasy Island, you know. If I can't remember what the main house looks like, then I shouldn't be painting it."

"Then it's all the more extraordinary," Leslie said. "It was a perfect choice to hang in that room. Although I'll admit it kind of makes me homesick."

Tattoo laughed. "Well, I didn't mean for it to do that." The door to the kitchen opened and his attention shifted. "Solange, _chérie_…how are things?"

"Just fine, I promise. Well, I can see it's been too long since you two were last in contact, since you've been talking out here all this time." Solange chuckled. "The meal's going to be ready in about fifteen more minutes. Do me a favor, _mon chér_, and call Patrick's and Antoinette's friends and have them send the children home."

"No problem," Tattoo assured her and slipped out of his chair, going into the next room and picking up the phone. He held a couple of quick conversations in French and then returned to the table. "So soon you'll meet the kids, and then we'll eat." He paused beside Leslie's chair and folded one of her hands inside both of his. "It's really good to have you here, Leslie. Thanks for including us on your trip."

Leslie tilted her head at him; his last remark, while innocuous enough, sounded just a little too out-of-place to her, somehow. Her smile held a tinge of worry. "How could I not stop and see you?" she asked softly, hoping the fact that her stomach was diving again didn't show on her face. "This is the warmest welcome I've ever had anywhere, and this already feels like an extension of home."

"Good, because you should consider this your second home," Tattoo said and patted her hand. "Okay, enough of this mush. Let's go bother Solange for a while." Leslie joined in his laugh and followed him into the kitchen, but her feeling of foreboding remained nevertheless, and she could only hope she would be able to eat something that evening.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- October 6, 1993

Both she and Tattoo slept quite late the following morning, and Solange had to roust them both out of their respective beds. In Leslie's case, that meant twenty-month-old Mireille climbing onto her bed and leaning down to peer curiously into her face. Unlike her older brother and sister, Mireille wasn't shy around Leslie at all.

When Leslie woke, she blinked in surprise at sight of the toddler staring at her with wide, curious eyes. She was a dead ringer for Solange, except that she was blessed with Tattoo's thick, glossy black hair. The moment Leslie found herself staring back at Mireille, the little girl giggled and said clearly, "Ma'selle up!" in a completely un-self-conscious mixture of French and English.

Leslie grinned at her. "Did _Maman_ say so?" she asked the child playfully, and Mireille nodded vigorously.

"So did _Papá_," came a voice from the doorway, and Leslie rolled over in bed to find both of Mireille's parents watching her. It was Tattoo who had spoken. "Come on, sleepyhead, get up. You're still coming with me to the gallery, aren't you?"

"That was the plan," Leslie said, stretching beneath the covers. "I guess now you're going to tell me you're about to walk out the door and I have five minutes to get ready."

"No, fifteen," retorted Tattoo, and Leslie stuck out her tongue at him, which evoked quiet laughter from the adults and a squeal of mirth from Mireille. At Solange's urging, the child tumbled nimbly off the bed and trotted over to join her mother and father in the doorway while Leslie got out of bed.

"Did you sleep okay?" Solange asked.

"I slept great," Leslie said and grinned down at Mireille. "She makes quite the little alarm clock, this one. Maybe I'll take her home with me. She's a sweetie."

Tattoo and Solange both laughed. "Be careful what you say; she'd probably go," Solange remarked. "Mireille's crazy about you." Leslie grinned wistfully. Mireille had insisted that Leslie be the one who read her a bedtime story the previous evening, and had listened very intently for such a young child. Leslie, reminded of the child she and Teppo had tried to have, carefully hid her expression from Tattoo and Solange, but they looked at each other as if they'd seen something in her eyes.

"She's a little doll," Leslie said. "Well, if you three will do me a favor and let me get dressed, I'll be down in no time at all."

Half an hour later Leslie and Tattoo were on their way into the city, having left Solange trying to pacify a wailing Mireille, who had wanted to go with Leslie. Tattoo sat back in his seat and regarded Leslie with a faintly worried look on his round features. "Tell me if I'm pushing," he said questioningly, "but did you and Teppo ever talk about having kids?"

"We really wanted to," Leslie said, her face clouding over. "For some reason we couldn't. No matter how many doctors we saw, no one ever found out what the problem was. It certainly wasn't for lack of trying on our part." She gave Tattoo a raised-eyebrow look, at which he grinned knowingly.

"Hey, at least you had fun trying," he offered, and she rolled her eyes before laughing in concession. "I asked only because there seems to be such a bond between you and Mireille. If you did take her home, I think she'd go right along with you and never look back even once."

Leslie smiled. "I imagine so." She stared out the window for a moment, reflecting, then sighed gently. "In a way, maybe it's as well. If there _had_ been a child, Teppo's family might have used him or her to make me stay in Finland after he was killed. Since I was alone, nothing held me back and I was free to go home."

Tattoo nodded. "I see what you mean. But it's still a shame. I think the boss would have been thrilled to be a grandfather." He grinned slyly, and Leslie laughed.

"That could very well be true. Well, I'm happy things are as they are, especially since there's no use wishing they could be changed. Hey, I just remembered something I wanted to ask you about. You scolded Patrick about some homework last night and called him 'Patrick Latignon' when you did. Why?"

"We gave the kids Solange's surname to protect them," Tattoo explained. "Like it or not, I'm famous throughout Europe and in quite a few other countries too. Solange is a fairly well-known name in France, but outside the country she's just another private citizen, so we felt it was better to give the children her name."

"I see," Leslie said. She glanced out the window again and fully noted the passing scenery for the first time. Already they were in the Parisian suburbs. "Is the gallery in the city proper, or what?"

"I started out renting a loft downtown," Tattoo said, "but now I have an exclusive building near the Champs-Élysées. We'll be changing trains a couple of times before we get there. I called the gallery and I understand from Etienne that the prince and his servant are due in anytime—we might find them already there."

He turned out to be right, and for a while he was kept busy with Prince Errico and Rogan Callaghan, leading them on a leisurely tour around the current selection in the gallery and keeping up a casual conversation with the prince. Leslie strolled along a few paces behind them, scanning the various paintings and other works of art in silence before the prince finally chose three paintings and a sculpture at great length. While he was making shipping arrangements with one of Tattoo's employees, Tattoo himself brought Leslie to the other end of the gallery and introduced her to the two employees to whom he had turned over the gallery's day-to-day operation, a married couple named Etienne and Aimée.

"So you are Mr. Tattoo's honorary niece?" Etienne inquired cheerfully. "If you only knew, _mademoiselle_, how much the _m'sieur_ speaks of you!"

"I believe we know all there is to know about you," Aimée said teasingly. "Especially how difficult you had it when you first came to Fantasy Island." They all laughed; behind them, Rogan Callaghan turned and stared at Leslie with actual interest for the first time since he'd met her on Arcolos the previous morning. No one else noticed.

"Oh, is he telling stories at my expense?" Leslie asked and gave Tattoo a look of mock threat. "Do you want me to regale them with stories of your cousin Hugo and all those get-rich-overnight schemes he suckered you into?" That brought on more laughter, and Tattoo playfully swatted her arm.

Within the hour the prince was ready to leave, and he made a point of coming over to make his farewells to both Tattoo and Leslie. In the case of the latter, he kissed her hand yet again, causing Tattoo's eyebrows to shoot up far enough to nearly disappear beneath his hair. "My dearest Leslie, I do hope we shall meet again. _Cari_ Michiko was so delighted to have you as our guest, and you certainly must bring some of your friends along the next time you come to visit us. You made her so happy, and I sincerely thank you. And Tattoo, _mon ami_, so very good to see you again! As always, you have an impeccable selection here."

"Nothing but the best," Tattoo replied smoothly, nodding at the prince. "You know we always look forward to your visits here, and we're always glad to be of assistance."

"The friendly accommodations alone bring me back, _mon ami_, indeed they do." Prince Errico beamed. "I shall return in approximately three months, of course. Perhaps you might consider a little reminder of Fantasy Island for Michiko, if I might be so bold as to presume on our friendship and business relationship? As a Christmas gift, of course."

Tattoo smiled faintly. "I'll consider it," he said. "Just tell me what you think she'd like, and I'll see what I can do."

"Done, _mon ami_, done," the prince said, beaming. "And now I am afraid we must be on our way back to our humble island. Now, where is that man?…Callaghan!"

Tattoo and Leslie watched him leave; Rogan Callaghan cast a glance at them over his shoulder in Errico's wake. Tattoo frowned curiously. "I never saw that other guy before."

"Michiko said Errico recently hired him," Leslie recalled. She frowned slightly, thinking again that there was something ever so vaguely familiar about him but unable to figure out just what it was. With a shrug, she put it out of her mind. "Well, so that's over with. Hey, do I see the top of the Eiffel Tower out there?"

That was their cue; she and Tattoo spent the next several hours exploring Paris. They had lunch in a café and went to the top of the Eiffel Tower, among a great many other places that Tattoo insisted Leslie had to see before leaving the City of Light. By the time he decided they had both seen enough, it was late afternoon and they were ready to return home. They both dozed on the train; but Tattoo, with the expertise of a native, came awake just before reaching their stop and shook Leslie back to consciousness. "Hey, sleepy, get up. I think tonight would be a good night to call the boss, don't you?"

"Sure, that'd be great," Leslie agreed with enthusiasm, shaking herself back to life. "I haven't been in touch with Father since I left home."


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § -- October 6, 1993

They had supper with Solange and the children, and Mireille insisted on having Leslie read her another bedtime story before she was satisfied enough to go to sleep. Leslie grinned as she left the little girl's room. "What a charmer," she murmured, pulling Mireille's door shut. "You'll have your hands full in around ten years or so, you know."

"We already do," Solange remarked dryly, and they all chuckled. "Well, why don't you two go ahead and call Mr. Roarke now? Antoinette needs some help with her homework, so I'll be in her room if you need me, _mon chér."_

"That's fine," said Tattoo. "We'll sit in the studio. Leslie, the phone in the living room is a cordless model, so go get the handset and then come with me."

They checked the local phone directory, since they had no idea how to call overseas—and particularly Fantasy Island—from France. In the end, Tattoo called the operator and wrote down the instructions he was given; then he followed them carefully, and he and Leslie waited through a short series of clicks as the connections went through. Finally there came the buzz indicating the ringing of the phone on the other side of the planet, and Leslie grinned with anticipation.

"Yes," said Roarke's voice after two rings.

"Hi, Father, how's everything at home?" Leslie asked.

"Well, good morning, Leslie! Or should I say 'good evening', since I am sure it's fairly late in France?" Roarke said, chuckling. "Everything is just fine, as always, although the house seems quite empty without you, and I admit to a difficult time adjusting to Julie being in your place, however temporarily. Tell me, how is your trip going?"

"So far so good," Leslie said. "There's someone here who'd like to say something."

"Hi, boss," Tattoo greeted his former employer with a wide grin.

"Tattoo, my friend, hello to you also!" exclaimed Roarke, delighted. "It's very good to hear both your voices, believe me. So, Tattoo, is Leslie resting as she was advised to do?"

Tattoo shot Leslie a sly look that made her brace herself for the teasing she knew was coming. "You wouldn't believe it, boss. Laziest girl I ever saw. She claims her doctor told her it was okay, and then just lies around all day doing nothing. We've been waiting on her hand and foot!"

Roarke was laughing on the other end. "Indeed! Running you ragged, is she? If that daughter of mine causes you any more trouble, my friend, you have my permission to evict her." Tattoo laughed as well, and Leslie rolled her eyes.

"Just for that, I think I'll take an extra month off," Leslie said, escalating their laughter. She giggled with them and settled back in her chair, gazing absently into the back yard, softly pink in the dimming sunset. "Actually, it's been quite a trip so far. Arcolos was one of the more interesting places I've seen, and Paris really lives up to its nickname. And Father, you should see Tattoo and Solange's home here. It's simply gorgeous." She went on to describe the house and its setting to her father, with Tattoo inserting a detail here and there. "Not only that, but there's one of Tattoo's paintings in almost every room. I wish you could see the one in mine. It's a letter-perfect rendering of the main house. I could have sworn it was a photograph the first time I saw it."

"How could it be anything else?" Roarke asked reminiscently. "Tattoo spent a great deal of his life here on the island, and no doubt his memories are quite vivid. And how are Solange and the children doing, my friend, not to mention you yourself?"

They chatted for a while, till out of nowhere Leslie yawned despite herself. Roarke's tone grew instantly concerned. "Are you certain you're getting enough rest, Leslie? I realize you want to see the sights along the way, but I don't want you taxing yourself. Remember, the main purpose of this trip is for you to get some much-needed rest."

"Don't worry, Father," Leslie insisted, casting a rueful smile at Tattoo, who returned it with understanding. "I've been sleeping like the dead most nights, and it has nothing to do with trying to do too much sightseeing during the day. As a matter of fact, Tattoo and Solange sent their youngest in to wake me up this morning, because I apparently overslept."

Tattoo laughed. "She's exaggerating, boss. We did have Mireille go in and wake her up, but I told her to sleep as long as she liked. We're not on much of a schedule around here, especially since Solange made me cut back on my time at the gallery and I go only once a week these days. Leslie, if you do feel tired, go on to bed, and don't feel as if you have to get up at any special hour, you understand?"

"But…" Leslie began.

"My child," Roarke broke in, "you'll be home again in another two weeks, and there will be all the time on earth to talk then. On the other hand, I should like the opportunity to speak with Tattoo, since we are so rarely in touch nowadays. I don't mean to sound as if I am trying to brush you off…"

"Oh sure," Leslie teased him, "you just don't want to talk to me." She snickered at Tattoo's rolled-eyes expression. "Okay, okay, you both talked me into it. I have to admit, I saw more of Paris than I expected to today. Well, then, good night, Father, and I hope I have a chance to talk to you again before I come home."

"I don't," Roarke retorted, triggering a loud laugh from Tattoo. "I told you before you left, don't worry about staying in touch with us. Just enjoy your vacation, and leave thoughts of home until the time you are actually on your way back."

"Is that an order?" Leslie asked.

"It certainly is," Roarke said; then his voice softened. "Please, Leslie, this is not an idle request. As good as it is to hear your voice and to know you're well, I insist that you not go out of your way to contact me. Your arrival home is soon enough to hear about your trip. Now go and get some sleep, and let me speak with Tattoo."

She sighed. "Oh, all right. Well, then, I'll see you soon, Father…and good night, Tattoo, see you in the morning."

"Good night, _petite chérie,"_ Tattoo replied with a fond, avuncular smile, and she disconnected the cordless phone and took it back into the house with her. Tattoo watched her go and sighed, too late hearing the gusty report into the phone.

"Tattoo, what's wrong?" Roarke immediately asked. "And don't mince words, my friend. Tell me the truth: Leslie mentioned Solange's concern over you, and I want to know. How, exactly, is your health?"

"I guess it could be better," Tattoo admitted reluctantly. "Some days I feel normal, other days it's like I'll never get up again. The doctors tell me some of my organs are beginning to malfunction. They don't know how much longer I might expect to go on. I already have trouble sleeping, and I have to do it sitting up now." Sighing again, he outlined his other health troubles, things he had refused to tell Leslie.

Roarke was quiet for a long moment on the other end. Finally he asked in a heavy voice, "How long has this been going on, Tattoo?"

"Several months," Tattoo said, hesitated, then sighed again. "Actually, most of this year. But I felt twinges long before that. Boss…it's as well Leslie's here now. It could be the last time I ever see her. I couldn't tell her the truth. She's already lost so many people she loved, and it looks like I'm going to be the next one. And we've been shielding my kids from the whole truth, too. Mireille's not even two, she wouldn't understand…but Patrick and Antoinette would be…" His voice broke and he left the sentence hanging there.

On Fantasy Island, Roarke settled back in his chair, becoming suddenly aware of the raucous avian chorus outside. The bright, noisy tropical morning, so like thousands of others he had experienced here over the years, seemed offensive now somehow. He closed his eyes for a moment; his former assistant's revelations had brought on the same free-fall panic he'd felt when Helena Marsh had died. For Roarke, as for Leslie, it was an all-too-familiar feeling, one he would have paid dearly never to experience again.

He cleared his throat to steady his voice. "How much does Solange know?"

"Everything," Tattoo told him. "But there's one thing she doesn't know: she thinks I'm trying to bring on my own passing by working the way I do, but that's not it at all. When I'm gone, her life and the kids' lives will be upset enough. I don't want them to have to lose this house and everything I've worked so hard to give them. That's why I'm painting like crazy. I must have two dozen works in progress in my studio now, and I'm going to keep turning out paintings till I can't anymore. This is the only home that Patrick and Antoinette and Mireille have ever known, and I don't want them having to leave it when I'm gone. I've got everything put away in a special account for her and the children, so that Solange can put off going back to work till Mireille's in school at least. Any dance company will take her, she's that good…I just don't want her to be forced back into it."

Roarke was silent, waiting; he knew Tattoo wasn't finished. He closed his eyes again.

In the glass-walled studio, Tattoo swallowed thickly, staring at the fading sunset without seeing it. "One other thing. When I do start to…I mean, whenever my systems begin their final shutdown and I'm no longer able to function, I've made it clear I don't want any kind of artificial life support. When it's my time, they're to let me go, pure and simple. There's nothing anyone can do for me, I've accepted that, and there's no reason to prolong my life when there's no chance of my getting any better."

"I understand, my friend," Roarke said quietly.

"My will's all updated," Tattoo went on stolidly. "Everything's ready when the time comes. After I've passed on, you're going to get a telegram, boss. Solange and the kids will be coming to Fantasy Island with my lawyer, and that's where the will should be read."

"All right, Tattoo," Roarke agreed.

"One more thing: please, boss, don't tell Leslie, not till it's happened. I'm sure she'll get upset, but tell her I insisted on it. I just can't bear the thought of turning her world upside down all over again, not before it has to be." His eyes glittered in the light that spilled over from within the house. "I'm certainly not going to send her home unhappy."

"That seems somewhat cruel," Roarke protested gently. "I would certainly tell her, since you request it of me…but I suspect she would feel less cheated hearing it from you."

Tattoo hesitated, thinking this over. "You think so, boss? I don't want to ruin the rest of her trip, after all. And this is something you just don't tell someone over the phone or in a letter. It's better in person. Yet if I do it now…"

Roarke grasped the quandary Tattoo was in. "I see your dilemma…very well, my friend, I'll tell her as you specified." Tattoo heard him sigh deeply. "She is there for another week. Do you feel you can handle it?"

"Her being here makes me feel better," Tattoo said warmly. "Funny how she's giving me the energy I've been losing for awhile now. She asked to see my paintings here in the studio. And you should see her with Mireille—I can't figure that out at all. Mireille's gone crazy over Leslie." He laughed. "She won't let anyone but Leslie read her bedtime story to her, and she wanted to come with us when we went into Paris today. We're already making jokes about Leslie taking Mireille home with her."

Roarke laughed as well. "So she has an admirer! That's not such a surprise; the island children like her very much as well." The two fell silent for a moment or two; then Roarke's tone shifted. "I would ask one thing of you, Tattoo…simply to make Leslie's visit a happy one. Leave her with pleasant memories. They will help her later on."

"Of course, boss, of course…that's the easiest thing you could ask. You know…I've said this a few times before, but…I just want to say it again. You're still the best friend I ever had—I think, in a way, you're responsible for my life being as good as it's been. You gave me a chance when nobody else would. You've always treated me as just another human being, and you allowed me my dignity and the opportunity to make my own way in this world; and you gave me the confidence I needed when it was time to leave and carve out my own life. If it hadn't been for you, my life would've been completely different. You were just there, being my friend and giving me chances I never had from anyone else. _Merci beaucoup, mon chér ami._ I can't thank you enough for everything you've ever done for me."

There was a thick silence across the line, and at last Roarke's whisper floated halfway around the world: "You are so very welcome, my friend…more than you can ever know." His emotion, so carefully concealed from his guests, his employees and often even his daughter, came through loud and clear to his oldest and dearest friend.

**A/N:** _I thought long and hard about where I should take the character of Tattoo. I started thinking about this quite some time ago. There has been at least one article, in a recent_ Boston Herald _issue, suggesting actors to fill the two principal roles should the original series premise be brought back in a remake film, as a number of other classic TV shows have been in the last decade or so. (Antonio Banderas as Mr. Roarke and Peter Dinklage as Tattoo? They're both good actors—but no, I don't think so!) For longtime original-series fans, only Ricardo Montalbán and Hervé Villechaize are the right actors for those parts. In light of the fact that Hervé Villechaize is deceased, and that Tattoo is far and away the role he was best known for, it's difficult for me (and undoubtedly many other _Fantasy Island_ fans) to imagine anyone else in the part. So I began to think that perhaps Tattoo's life should bear at least some echoes of Mssr. Villechaize's, and after wrestling with the idea for some months, I decided finally to go ahead and write it. The health problems I have attributed to Tattoo in this story were those of Mssr. Villechaize in real life._

_I've started the threads of at least two future stories in this one, and this in turn is the first of a large two-parter. In the continuation of the story of Leslie's vacation trip, the seeds of a third future story will be sown as well._


End file.
